Morning arrived without ceremony.
No headlines. No breaking news. No urgent calls demanding explanations. The world, it seemed, had watched the spectacle of last night—and then moved on.
Jasmine lay still in the unfamiliar apartment, pale sunlight creeping over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then everything returned with a knife's precision: the divorce, the humiliation, the pregnancy, and the choice she now carried alone.
She sat up slowly, hand instinctively resting against her abdomen, pressing lightly as if anchoring herself. Six weeks. No curve. No visible proof. Had she ignored the test, she could have pretended this was just another morning.
But she did not pretend.
She never had.
After a shower, she dressed simply—jeans, soft sweater, hair pulled back. No jewelry. No ornaments of the life she had just left. By the time she left the apartment, Jasmine Towers Acland was already becoming a name of the past.
The clinic was quiet.
A young couple whispered in the corner, fingers entwined, nerves audible in each glance. Jasmine sat across from them, eyes on the neutral wall art—flowers, abstract, inoffensive.
Her phone buzzed. Keith.
Where are you?
She didn't reply.
A moment later:
You left the penthouse. We should handle this properly.
Properly.
Jasmine muted the thread, slipping the phone into her bag. She was no longer his audience.
"Mrs. Towers?" the nurse asked.
"Just Jasmine," she said. The name sounded foreign on her tongue, yet freeing.
No recognition. No judgment. Just another patient, another morning.
Dr. Nolan greeted her warmly, professional, careful. The review of bloodwork, timelines, and practical concerns felt clinical, detached—but Jasmine's attention was acute. She answered each question calmly, measured, almost rehearsed:
Support system? "I have one."
Stress levels? "Manageable."
Plans moving forward? "Yes."
Then the inevitable:
"Is the father involved?"
Her gaze lifted, slow, deliberate. "No."
Not hesitant. Not defensive. Simply fact.
Dr. Nolan nodded. "Then we'll proceed with you as sole decision-maker."
Sole decision-maker. The words burrowed deep. She felt their weight in her bones, their echo in her pulse.
She signed forms, consents, acknowledgments—all that made this pregnancy real in ink and paper. At the line for Emergency Contact, her pen hesitated.
Then she wrote a name no one in Keith's world would recognize.
By noon, Jasmine sat in a quiet café, laptop open, fingers scanning lists:
Cities
Schools
Hospitals
Job opportunities
She filtered ruthlessly. No social overlap. No business ties. No shared acquaintances. Every detail planned for invisibility.
Her phone buzzed—unknown number. She paused, then answered.
"Jasmine," her mother's voice, taut with worry. "What happened last night? I saw something online—"
"I'm fine," Jasmine said. "But I need you to trust me."
A quiet sigh. "You sound like you've already decided something."
"I have."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
Her mother's tone softened. Years of understanding in a single wordless beat.
"All right," she said. "Tell me what you need."
"Time. Discretion. Silence."
"You have it," her mother said.
The call ended. Jasmine stared at her screen, narrowing the list. By evening, only one city remained. One opportunity. One clean break.
She booked a one-way ticket under her maiden name. Confirmation arrived seconds later.
Across the city, glass-walled offices, Keith Acland stared at the skyline, phone pressed to his ear.
"She didn't stay at the apartment," he said flatly. "I want to know where she is."
The investigator hesitated. "Sir… Mrs. Acland cleared out personal files, closed accounts, and changed her contact information."
Keith's jaw tightened. "Changed it to where?"
"That's the problem. Nowhere familiar."
Silence stretched, thin and jagged. For the first time since signing the papers, unease crept in.
"Find her. Quietly."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call. Optics, control, closure. He told himself it was all that mattered. He did not yet know what had already slipped beyond his reach.
That night, Jasmine packed light.
Dresses, heels, jewelry—the trophies of a life performed for the world—were left behind. Zip closed, relief washed through her instead of loss.
Before switching off the lights, her hand pressed once more to her abdomen.
"Just us," she whispered.
The city outside hummed, indifferent.
And somewhere between one ending and another beginning, a secret took root, one that would one day change everything.